More Like Me, Less Like You
by TypewritingFangirl
Summary: Everybody has a dark side, but Raivis Galante is the last person you'd expect to go over the edge. Evil, psychopathic and twisted beyond recognition, he waits for Lithuania at the end of the world… WARNINGS: Dark!Latvia, language, not the happiest thing ever written, overuse of the ellipsis...
1. Chapter 1

**More Like Me, Less Like You**

**Everybody has a dark side, but Raivis Galante is the last person you'd expect to go over the edge. Evil, psychopathic and twisted beyond recognition, he waits for Lithuania at the end of the world…**

**Dark!Latvia. PolLeit. Sort of relief from writing overly cheerful ABBC… **

**WARNINGS: Language, not the happiest thing ever written, overuse of the ellipsis... :)**

**Basically, for reasons that will be explained (if I can work out an update to this) Latvia has destroyed everything and he hates Lithuania the most. I don't know where this came from, but please give it a read!**

Lithuania was standing at the end of the world – or rather, crouching, cradling Poland's head in his arms. Chaos reigned, and cities lay around him as rubble under a toxic sky. All the other nations; dead, dying, too weak to go on any longer. He could already hear a cacophony in his head beside his own thoughts and memories: the screams of his people, his country suffering the most.

Oh, the fucker had made sure of that.

The stench was appalling; rotten flesh, rats, the underlying sticky stink of his own unwashed body. How long had it been, since all this started? It couldn't be more than a year, but it felt like Lithuania had always been heading here. The final square. The last chapter. His whole a thousand years or more.

Twitching in his arms Poland was coughing something in spurts of blood, begging him hoarsely: "Please… Liet; please, j-j-just… kill m-me…"

But Lithuania couldn't.

The only thing he had left?

He wouldn't.

Fires blazed in the distance, each new shell tearing the country of Lithuania to pieces, but Toris was caught up in a more personal agony than the migraine their deaths were giving him. He just kept telling his lover, over and over; "It will be okay, you'll see, we'll get you to a hospital, we'll…"

"Hospital?" Poland mocked weakly, as if he was still trying to be funny or something. "Everyone's… like… dead, Liet. Dead!" His body twitched in a spasm of coughing, light draining steadily from his eyes, and Lithuania was a helpless observer, wiping the blood splatters with his sleeve. "Dead."

And now so was Poland.

In a panicked fumble, he tried everything he had learnt at Russia's to do with first aid. Checking the vital signs, hammering on the blonde's heart, breathing into his ruby-coated lips. Screaming desperate vows of love. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

How? How? How could his Feliks end up like this? After all he'd gone through in the Second World War, the pain of his country ripped in two… their old conquests together in which they fought side-by-side... how could this be the end?

The long-haired cross-dressing freak had gone, the nation that was so intense, so clingy, and so _beautiful_ that he would knock the eldest Baltic off his feet. Whether it was doing housework under the iron curtain as they danced with mops; singing karaoke in a faded 1960's ballroom; or lying in bed entwined, breathless with no need to talk or act or look, just able to _be_…

He would never, ever, be there again.

It was like a hand was squeezing Lithuania's heart, wringing everything out of him, all those wasted years spent waiting for Poland to call back and being too afraid to make a move. He felt like he'd be here forever, that some other person was snapping Feliks's eyelids closed, some other person was raiding his backpack, and some other person was coming up with the next plan of escape between stabs of pure fire pain…

How? How? How could Toris end up like this? With nobody left: entirely alone, aching a little more with every passing second. As a nation, he could feel each person wail… Estera, a girl of only thirteen, burning inside out whilst trying to save her little brothers… Petras, a tough old Vilnius tramp who'd seen both wars from his bench, but was finally defeated by this… families; businessmen; doctors and drug addicts - he even felt his bloody useless boss die.  
>He collapsed beside his Poland, holding him in his arms, mourning everyone and feeling his old scars split…<p>

A small voice interrupted Lithuania's paralysis of grief.

"_Sveiki_, Toris! So here we are," it crooned, not a stammer to be heard. "The endgame. In which I… have… destroyed… you."

Lithuania, weary, so sick of the torment he was under, managed to rise to his knees, and turned only his neck to look up at the boy.  
>He wondered if he'd have an answer, some pleading remark to try and make Latvia see sense, as he'd had every other time since that fateful first day.<p>

There was nothing. Poland lay still warm on the heat-cracked asphalt, his blood-coated kisses one final gift.

The last child in Lithuania stumbled over corpses onto an unexploded bomb.

Toris, finally, howled.

**Well, not so original, but maybe it'll get better. I don't know if I'll update this? I just couldn't get the idea of a very different Latvia out of my head, and I needed to write him because he kept being OOCishly awful to Sealand in ABBC - he's such a villain in my head now! I'd be grateful if you'd review and tell me what you think though!**

**sveiki - Latvian, hi**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**All I can say is, Wuyule11111, I am so sorry about this…**

Was it that day that had started all of this? That Tuesday afternoon in the middle of February when the rain dribbled down the windows and nations steamed as they trudged their wet boots along England's cream carpets? It was a day for curling up reading by fires or in lamplight, praising the heavens that you didn't have to be outside. Actually, the best kind of day, Latvia had always thought.

No. This wasn't the cause. Something had been brewing inside the small nation long before then: forming, building, _growing_.

That day had only lit the fuse. Released the monster. Awoken the darkness.

It was a World Conference, and the aforementioned host nation was involved in an argument with America when his mobile phone went off (it was the Doctor Who theme tune).

"And you're always on about manners, Iggy, but there's your cell going off in a meeting!"

"America!" he had jumped up angrily. "It's my _mobile phone_; I am the personification of _England_, not somewhere called _Iggy_; and my boss is ringing me. Cuba, could you possibly chair the meeting for a moment – I have to take this…"

Cuba nodded with a "Sure, man," and England smiled gratefully, sidling out of the room.

"You!" Alfred slammed his palm on the table. "He only picked you to piss me off! Dumbass 'gentleman' nerdy freak…"

"Hey, you quite done, _muchacho_?" Cuba grinned coolly, touching his bright white teeth with his tongue. "Only some of us got serious issues to discuss."

America practically growled. Poland rolled his eyes at Lithuania, who grinned and whispered to him as if they were a pair of schoolchildren.

An ordinary meeting, until the smashing started.

England was very quiet, but kicking and punching at the wall and generally losing it in his fit of silent rage. The nations spilled from the meeting room to watch him break down, slightly horrified at their usually dignified and proud fellow nation. His prized china teacup collection (that had been glued and re-glued together several times during Matthew and Alfred's childhood) bit the dust, each one hitting the hall tiles with a separate _crash_.

"Cuba, Canada," Germany muttered, tapping both of them on the shoulder. "He likes you: go and calm him down. I vill get the meeting under control."

"Quoi! I'm staying too, Allemagne!" France elbowed through the gawking nations. "Do you know how many years I was married to him?"

"And I'm not leaving Dad!" America added. England stopped all of a sudden at that word, looking up with a blotchy face and very old eyes.

"D-Dad?"

Alfred, who looked so young in comparison, sounded like he had difficulty getting his tongue around the word. He tried it again, licking his lips. "Dad. Dad. Dad, please…"

The shorter man was quivering, setting the next mug gently back down on the shelf. It looked like it was going to be a touching reunion scene, as Germany shepherded the others back inside. But-

"_NO!"_

It must have burned in his throat, the scream was that violent.

"YOU – DON'T – _EVER_ – GET – TO – CALL – ME – THAT – AGAIN!"

Each word was punctuated with a blow, until America was backed against the wall with a bleeding face and terrified stare. "What, sir?" he asked desperately, still looking very like a child – innocent, forgetting he was inches taller and could easily fight back. "What did I do?"

"Leave him alone!" Canada said rather loudly for once, he and the others trying to hold Arthur off. He struggled for a few seconds, but then it was like all the energy left him. He sank to the floor, wiping his face with his sleeve and looking very serious. Controlled.

Masked, as usual.

"Everybody go back into the meeting room and sit down. Don't talk. Please, just sit down. Just... just do it."

They did, backing away, not losing sight of him.

England's boss arrived, and he stood in the doorway flanked with a bodyguard on each side. There were mugs of tea and stale, crust-less sandwiches on white bread that nobody touched.

Poland told a few jokes that were just as tasteless as the food.

The atmosphere shuddered.

A slimy greaseball of a man, the boss stood with his arms folded behind his back and swallowed once or twice before speaking. He'd only met the nations together a couple of times, and neither had gone very well.

"Um, well, I'm afraid there's something terrible. Awful. Unforseeable. _Tragic._"

He coughed to clear his throat. Most of the nations sat tensely, barely breathing, apart from the ever-chilled Cuba and not-particularly-bothered Russia. What was it? Nuclear apocalypse? War? Economic meltdown? They could deal with it – whilst not the war-mongers they used to be, they were tough.

"A remote-controlled American missile was fired at 09:00 hours this morning," the Prime Minister said, watching each face closely and noticing America from the horrid colour he turned at those words. "Just a test, nothing major: they wanted to see how far it would go. They promised it would explode in the middle of the sea and cause no harm."

They were all looking at America now.

"There is an abandoned naval base about six miles off the coast of this country, known as Fort Roughs. Or commonly Sealand, although that has not been recognised by any-"

"Go on," Sweden said, his voice dangerously low. He had his arm round a sick-looking Finland.

"The missile hit at approximately 11:18. The base was, I'm afraid, completely destroyed."

"And th-the people? The people who live there?" Somebody asked the question, although they all knew the answer.

"I am sorry to have to tell you that there were no survivors."

Latvia heard all this as if he were underwater. As if it were happening to somebody else. He giggled a little, and it had a high-pitched, grating quality; like before his voice had broken.

"N-no, there was a little boy!" Finland gasped, and Raivis heard the catch in his throat. "A little boy called Peter! You didn't check properly! He's a nation: he's immortal, he's like us! He's like-"

"Prussia." Germany croaked, before apologising and running from the room with Feliciano at his heels.

"I'm afraid… I'm afraid Peter Kirkland is dead." The man said bluntly, biting his thumbnail in a very un-ministerial fashion. "And as his country has been destroyed…"

"He's never coming back." America was realising at last, realising the enormity of what his country had done this time. How he was not the hero, but very much the villain once again. "You have to believe me, I didn't know! I just signed… I didn't read… I didn't know…"

"Your signature is on the form," England held up a flimsy sheet of paper, marked with the ostentatious 'Alfred F. Jones' in a curling script. "You agreed to this missile test."

Some nations were angry. Some cried. Some were relieved – they didn't really care about a micro-nation they'd never recognised. They weren't in danger.

Wy flung herself at America, scratching and clawing and biting.

Latvia just laughed until they had to carry him out of the room.

**So, I wrote that. It's kind of evil, I know, but you were warned that this was not a happy story! I've been trying all day to write ABBC, but somehow I found this so much easier… I think it needs a bit of a tweak, though. Suggestions and crit very welcome.**

**Happy new year, all, if this hasn't ruined it ****. **

_**muchacho –**_** Spanish, boy. I think Cuba partly uses it for the younger nations in a nice way and for America to annoy him.**

**~And FACE family… I can't resist.**

_**Quoi?**_** – French, What?**

**~ I am absolutely not calling my country's current leader a slimy greaseball… (okay, maybe I am)**

**I won't update either of my stories for the next few days, but I will see you on Sunday with a definite update to ABBC (I promise)**


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